


Passing Ships

by BrownieFox



Series: If At First You Don't Succeed [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean POV, Gen, John POV, Pre-Series, Sam POV, Time Travel, Weechesters, except not really, in that order, smol boys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-18
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2020-03-07 06:12:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18867358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrownieFox/pseuds/BrownieFox
Summary: John gets injured during a salt and burn and a stranger brings him back to the hotel





	Passing Ships

The knock on the door was quick and sharp. 

It wasn’t the kind John did: three firm knocks, space between each one like an ‘O’ in morse code. Not that John usually knocked; he usually just came right in. 

Dean sat up, a bit on edge but mostly just annoyed, wondering who could be bothering a random hotel room at this hour. Sammy was already asleep, curled up on the bed they were supposed to share, a textbook taking up the spot that was supposed to be Dean’s. When he got tired, he would deal with it. For now, Dean was fine to chill on John’s bed, watch TV, and try to ignore the restlessness of not being with John on the salt and burn. John had insisted he could deal with it on his own, telling Dean to start looking for their next case. 

The knock made Sammy shift in his sleep, and when a second knock - as quick and sharp as the last one - made it known that there was still somebody outside of their hotel room, Dean huffed and got off the bed. He grabbed a handgun off the table, left there after having been clean, and kept it in his hand as he opened the door. He didn’t expect to need it, but this late at night and with the life they lived, one couldn’t be too careful. 

The man on the other side was tall, crazy tall, with long hair that went almost to his shoulders. He was wearing a couple layers, which at first stuck out as odd to Dean what with the warm weather before he realized that it was similar to what both he and John usually wore. Dean raised his eyebrows at the guy. He didn’t look like room service, or a policeman, or a weird late-night door-to-door salesman. 

“Can I help you?” Dean asked coldly. The man didn’t say anything, just stared at Dean, mouth slightly open. Dean rolled his eyes and almost slammed the door in the man’s face before deciding that there must be reason he was here. He reached up and snapped in front of the guy’s face and the man flinched back, blinking quickly. “Hey, dude, what do you want?”

“I, uh, there…” The man’s eyes were darting all over, everywhere but Dean’s face, like he was trying to find the words in the air. Dean once again considered slamming the door, but what the man said next made Dean freeze, blood running cold. “You’re John Winchester’s son, right?”

“How do you know that?” Dean growled, almost pulling the gun out from where it was hidden behind the door but stopped himself. He’d only have the element of surprise once. The man held up a wallet - John’s wallet. 

“He has pictures of you. There was an accident in the graveyard. It was hard enough getting him into my car, can you help me get him into the room?” Whatever weird nervousness the man had displayed before gone now. He was looking at Dean in the eyes. The man’s eyes were hazel and familiar and seemed like they were boring into Dean’s head, through his skull. Dean didn’t get nervous or scared, he was a Hunter. He took the step back for tactical advantage.

If John was out there, he had to get him. But still, Dean wasn’t stupid.

“Wait there.” Dean ordered and slowly backed further into the room. The only movement that the man made was to shift his foot so that it was keeping the door open. Dean couldn’t decide whether he was glad to still be able to watch the man, or on-edge that the man didn’t have anything blocking his way to Dean. 

Dean pulled the silver knife out from under his pillow and snatched the bottle of holy water from his bag. He’d never run into a demon before, but John had tested other Hunters using it so Dean went ahead and did so too. The man didn’t flinch when the water splashed on him, and Dean nothing happened when Dean put the flat edge of the knife against the man’s hand. The man on his part was quiet and patient throughout the process, and even suggested Dean try soap and iron too - the iron Dean understood, the soap not so much, and part of him wondered if the man was mocking him, but Dean’s instincts oddly enough said that the man was being serious.

“C’mon.” The man said when Dean had finished with his tests. He led him out to his truck - big like the man himself - and opened the back doors. John was lying there, unconscious and scarily still. Together they got John into the hotel, though Dean got the distinct impression that if the man had really wanted to, he could’ve carried John himself. 

They set John on the bed, where Dean was able to get a better look at John’s injuries. Not that there was much to see at all. He was already bandaged up. White cloth around his head, around his stomach, around both arms. There was the faintest bit of pink that Dean could see in spots of the stomach and head bandages. 

“You… already patched him up?” Dean asked, looking over the work. The bandages were wrapped expertly, not tight to the point it was cutting off blood but still tight enough to do their job. 

“I had the supplies on me.” The man shrugged. 

There was quiet for a moment as Dean gave a closer look to his dad. Over all, it didn’t look like anything that John hadn’t had before. 

“How’d you know where to find us?” The question suddenly struck Dean and he looked back at the man accusingly. The man looked like he was stopping himself from rolling his eyes. 

“Room key.” He held up the wallet again and Dean darted forward, taking it from the man’s hand. “It’s not rocket science.”

Okay, that was fair. Dean stepped away from his dad, giving one more glare at the man before turning to Sammy. He deserved to know what was going on. It took a few tries to rouse the kid, but eventually Sammy blinked his eyes open, making an upset noise in the back of his mouth.

“Dean?” Sammy’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“Morning princess.” Dean teased and Sammy’s expression soured.

_ “Night.”  _ Sammy started to turn over, grabbing the blanket and pulling it to cover his head, but Dean grabbed his shoulder. 

“Wait, Sammy-”

“Sam.” Sammy insisted, but sat up. 

“Dad’s back.” Dean said and now Sammy was really awake, blinking the last of sleep’s grasp away and looking over Dean’s shoulder. Dean turned around too. The man was bent over John, looking at the bandages.

“Who’re you?” Sammy asked, sounding young and innocent. Dean glanced back, though, and saw Sammy’s hand had slipped under his pillow where there was definitely a gun or knife - probably knife, knowing Sammy. Kid liked his comfort over his safety. The man turned around and for a fraction of a second that openness that the man had displayed when Dean had first answered the door was back. It was gone just as soon as it appeared, and it twisted something uncomfortable in the pit of Dean’s stomach. The passive-blank-controlled the mask wore wasn’t right.

“Seth Wesson.” 

It wasn’t a name Dean recognized. He knew John had a myriad of hunter contacts, but Dean could list the ones he’d personally met on one hand, and of those it had been quite a while. It was while he considered this that Dean realized there was a hand extended out to him - Seth’s hand, waiting for Dean to accept it. Dean Shook it, almost more out of habit of ‘that’s what you do’ than ‘I want to shake Joe Shmoe’s hand’. It was rough and calloused - like John’s, like Dean’s, like Sammy’s. There was a scar there, something that had clearly not healed well, ragged against Dean’s hand. He didn’t look at it. Sammy did, though. Seth put his hand out to the teenager and as Sammy shook his hand he turned it just so, so that when they let go he was able to glimpse it. 

“Why are you here?” Sammy asked cautiously, eyes darting over to Dean, checking whether to run-hide-attack-play it by ear. Dean relaxed a bit. Not enough for him to not be ready to attack if needed, but enough for Sammy to leave the knife under the pillow. 

“Your dad got banged up in a saltnburn. Finished it up and brought him here.” Said said, once again looking at every inch of the room that wasn’t Dean or Sammy. 

“Thanks.” Sammy said awkwardly. Dean noticed him glance back at the bed, and Seth must’ve too considering his next comment.

“You can head back to bed. I’m just dropping your dad off. Got places to be.”

Sammy glanced at Dean again and he gave his little brother a small nod. He could handle this guy on his own.

Seth exited the hotel room and Dean followed after him. He didn’t bother trying to conceal picking up a handgun on the way. Seth stopped just far enough for Dean to stand between him and the closed door before turning around, a single eyebrow raised.

“I’m about to be out of your hair.” Seth stated and Dean held back a comment about how Seth’s hair was too long for that to be easy. He didn’t know this man.

“Why were you there? At the graveyard?” Dean asked. Seth nodded, like he found the question good. Dean didn’t give a rat’s ass what he thought about his question, he just wanted it answer.

“I was gonna do the same case. Noticed it, was passing right through, it made sense.” Seth shrugged.

“So you’re a hunter.” Dean didn’t know why, but he needed the verbal confirmation. 

“Not quite. I’m more… like Bobby Singer.” For some reason, the answer loosened something in Dean’s chest he didn’t understand. After a moment, Seth pulled a notebook out of an inner jacket pocket, jotting something down on a page and ripping it off, handing the fragment to Dean. “Here. If you need help researching, call me.” 

Dean took the phone number, staring at it and committing the digits to memory. He wondered if this was all a dream. It felt weird, this man felt weird, unreal. His gut was still doing something weird, not unsettled by the man, but uncomfortable with him walking away. 

“Why?” Dean called, a last question as Seth was climbing into his truck, one foot already up. He seemed to turn the question around in his head before looking at Dean in the eyes again. It was dark, so Dean couldn’t see them too well, he could feel their intensity boring into him.

“Because you’re a good man.” 

Seth drove away and Dean stood there a bit longer, the words seeping into him, said with such surety that for the barest of seconds, he believed it. 

 

oOo

 

Sam sat up when Dean came back in the room. He had a weird expression that Sam couldn’t read. 

“Everything okay?” Sam asked. He hadn’t gotten any bad feeling or anything from Seth, but there had to be a reason Dead chased after him. 

“Yeah. Go to bed, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam.” Sam huffed, but layed back down. If it was important, Dean would tell him. 

He heard the thump of his textbook hitting the floor and then Dean finally climbing into bed too. Sleep had no trouble reclaiming Sam again, folding him into darkness and the rest that any hunter treasured whenever they could get it. 

He woke up before Dean, the sun not yet up, his dream still there everytime he closed his eyes. Sam layed there for just a little longer, trying to encourage his brain to tell him more about it. Muffled cursing convinced Sam to accept the fact that he was really awake. Careful and quiet, he rolled out of bed, grabbing his knife from under his pillow, still half asleep and running more on instinct than cognizant thought. The noise was coming from the bathroom and Sam nudged the door open, relaxing when it was just John.

John was staring at himself in the mirror, expression turned down into a glare as he assessed his damage. He’d taken off the bandages, giving Sam a good view of the injuries he’d sustained. There was a mean looking and blood spot on John’s head, still damp with blood. His arm had ragged slices cut across it, a bit of blood seeping out now that the bandages were gone. By far, the worst injury was on John’s stomach. A neat row of stitches kept the skin together, but it was still red and blood and irritated. John dunked an old shirt-turned-rag into water in the sink, carefully cleaning up the blood from the various injuries, pink tinting the rag and the water.

“You and Dean get tired of waiting for me?” John asked when he noticed Sam standing there, watching. His voice was a shade gruffer than usual due to the early nature of the morning and the injuries. 

“No,” Sam admitted, “There was another hunter.” That caught John’s attention. He stopped working on his injuries and turned his head to face Sam, eyeing him as if he thought Sam was lying. 

“Another hunter?” John repeated and Sam nodded, doing his best not to shrink under his dad’s scrutinizing gaze.

“Seth Wesson.” The name from last night so easy to recall. He blinked, the man in clear detail behind his eyelids. “Long-ish brown hair and really tall, taller than you. He was there for the same case.” 

“Never heard of him.” John grunted, then repeated “Seth Wesson” more to himself than to Sam, trying the name out, like saying it would make it suddenly ring a bell. He went on cleaning blood off himself and Sam stepped out of the bathroom.

Dean was still asleep, honest to god snoring a bit, and Sam didn’t even try to hide the light lifting of the corners of his mouth, a soft smile to fit the soft morning. There was an energy in mornings like this one, an almost-calm, almost-normal that Sam wished he could put in a jar and save for mornings when he and John were at each other’s throats - an ever-growing canyon gaping between them. When Dean couldn’t look Sam in the eyes as he silently - or sometimes loudly - took John’s side over his. But for now, all Sam could do was enjoy this while it lasted, picking up his textbook and putting it on the table, flipping it back to the last page he’d been reading. But he couldn’t focus, mind continually returning to Seth.

Sam closed his eyes, his dream as clear as when he’d been asleep.

Seth, standing in a graveyard, features lit by the flickering of the burning grave he stood over, thumb pressing into the gnarled scar on his hand. There was more, but the details were fleeting. The sound of an entire flock of birds taking flight, a distant scream, a quiet promise with the words missing. Bright bright scarring light that became nonexistance.

He opened his eyes back up and wondered what it meant.

 

oOo

 

John had, honest to god, thought he was going to die.

There’s no such thing as a ‘simple’ salt and burn. There was always some element or other you didn’t know or expect. Even if, for some reason, you knew exactly what was going on, nine times out of ten the spirit was going to show up and do its damndest to kill you. Bottom line? John should’ve taken Dean with him. The ghost got the drop on him, stabbing John with his own knife. He’d then been pushed away with the ghost’s energy, hitting his head on a tombstone and getting knocked out. Surely, the ghost would finish the job. 

And yet, here he was, still alive and with only a name and a vague description to account for that fact.

Dean had offered a better description and explanation than Sam had given. Apparently this Seth character claimed to have finished the salt and burn, sewn up John’s stab wound, brought him back to the hotel, and had just left, asking for nothing in return. Sure, hunting was usually a thankless job, but when one had the option to get some kind of reward, they’d usually take it. Saving another hunter’s life usually come with  _ something,  _ seeing as both knew just how little the job gave. To not want or ask for anything, not even swapping lore or contact information, was odd.

John called up various hunters, seeing what they knew. It was Pastor Jim Murphy who recognized the name, saying that Seth was a nice hunter who’d dropped by and offered to put up some extra warding sigils in the church.

_ “Bobby knows him better than me.”  _ Jim had said and John had scowled at the phone. There was an internal war over his need to know more about this man who had saved his life and having to contact Bobby about it. They hadn’t left on good terms last time. There were shouted words, a death threat thrown out as John had stormed out with Dean and Sam in tow. 

Dialing Bobby’s number felt like waving a white flag - something that John Winchester didn’t do. 

_ “Singer Salvage Yard.”  _ Bobby’s voice hadn’t changed since John had last heard it - old and grumbly, eternally pissed. 

“It’s John Winchester.” There was a beat, and John prepared himself to be hung up on. 

_ “You better have a damn good reason to be calling me.”  _ Bobby growled, and John almost hung up on the man himself, blood already boiling as the grudge he’d been keeping all this time surged forward all at once. 

“What do you know of a Seth Wesson?” John bit out, hand shaking with the effort not to slam the phone back down. 

_ “Why do you want to know?”  _ Bobby demanded back, sharp and biting. 

“Because my boys had a run in with him and I want to know if he’s dangerous.” John raised his voice. There was silence on Bobby’s end, then a grumbling, something about the boys that John couldn’t make out.

_ “So you do care about their wellbeing.”  _ Bobby said and John bristled, opening his mouth and ready to jump right back into that last conversation, that last argument, but Bobby kept talking before John could get the burning and aggressive words out.  _ “You don’t have to worry about Seth. He’s a good man. ‘S stopped by a few times. Calls himself a ‘Man of Letters’.”  _

“Never heard of that before.” John admitted, anger stalled for the moment as he got answers.

_ “Yeah, me either. Claims he’s the last one. One thing’s for sure: man knows his shit.”  _ There was respect in Bobby’s tone, and no matter what John may have against Bobby he had to admit that Bobby was a pretty reliable judge of character. John’s hand subconsciously hovered over the stitches that Seth had put there. They had a practiced perfection to them, and loath as John was to admit they were better than his own - of course, it was considerably harder to steady one’s hand when stitching themself up. 

“Okay.” John said, because he couldn’t say ‘thank you’.

_ “Listen, John,”  _ There was a sigh on Bobby’s end,  _ “I don’t like how you raise those boys - no, shut up ya idjit - I’m not sorry for anything I’ve said. But those boys are basically all grown up, and I’ll be damned if I let our bad blood keep them away. So you may not have a place here, but your boys do. And if you need information, you know my number.” _

John swallowed down the retort he so desperately wanted to say, the old fight that had sat rotting between him and Bobby right there and so so easy to fall back into. 

“What’s with the change of heart?” John said instead through gritted teeth.

_ “I’ve always had a heart for those boys.”  _ Bobby said and hung up.

It was… well, it was something. He now knew a bit more about this Seth Wesson, this ‘Man of Letters’. Bobby still apparently hated his guts, which was fine because John still hated his, but he had to grudgingly admit that it would be nice to be able to get lore from Bobby again. He still didn’t like how Bobby seemed so attached to his sons - they were  _ his  _ sons - but there weren’t many hunters John had managed to stay on good terms with. 

Instead of researching their next hunt, John tried to find information on ‘Men of Letters’.

He didn’t find anything. 

**Author's Note:**

> What's this, a supernatural fic after all these years?  
> Trust me, I'm more disappointed in myself than you are.   
> At any rate, here's a series I hope to work on and finish about a Sam who has gone back in time.


End file.
